Chapter 8
Eight
Finn Wellcrest, Captain of the Kingsguard, reveals himself as he opens the drawing room door, his voice deep and commanding.
“Quick—come with me…” He trails off, absorbing the sight of Balor’s mangled face.
His hand brushes the pommel of his sword hanging at his side, then stills as his gaze takes me in.
I’m a mess, but not as bad off as Balor appears to be.
The captain’s thick brow juts upward over his violet eyes.
His russet skin is smooth and his onyx hair, tied back into complicated braids, contrasts with his silver armor and crimson cape.
Everyone knows him as the Captain of the Kingsguard, but he was raised as the king’s ward and has been betrothed to Princess Klara since the day she was born—he will become the consort when she ascends the throne someday.
Balor straightens and wipes his blood away with a black handkerchief. A red welt that looks almost like a blister glistens on his cheekbone. He winces. “Right away.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” the captain corrects. “King Xander summons the Lady Courtesan.”
A heartbeat of silence. “Me?”
“Her?” Balor echoes.
“It’s a direct order from His Grace. You are not to keep her from him.” Wellcrest’s words are sharp as he focuses on Balor’s still-panting form.
My mind reels.
Why would the king want me?
Balor stops talking as his eyebrows knit together in a dumbfounded expression. No one ever speaks to him like this.
Craning his neck, he sneers at me. He will try to find a way to blame and punish me for this—and for his attack—when we’re alone again.
My stomach lurches at the sight of him tidying his hair and soiled doublet.
What little affection I have remaining for him has grown into unfettered hate and disgust. These feelings burn from the inside out until I can’t feel anything at all, and numbness overtakes me.
Wellcrest readjusts his stance, his sword and scabbard rattling with impatience.
“If you do not tell me what the king wants with my courtesan,” Balor hisses as he follows, “then I’ll find out for myself.”
Down dimly lit corridors, Wellcrest leads us under hanging tapestries and into hidden passageways to avoid the crowds still twirling the night away. The ballroom music grows muffled through the walls, adding to the feeling of being out of place.
Balor’s presence stalks from behind, chilling my blood. I try not to dwell on him and what’s happened. If I stop and think of it, I’ll break down, and there’s no time for that, not when I need to save what’s left of my composure.
I rack my brain but fail to guess why the king summons me—unless he wants me for the same reason most men do.
Could he?
No…
It’s common knowledge that he hasn’t shown interest in sexual relations since the Courtesan Queen disappeared. Madame Phyrne has connections at the castle; if something changed, the news would have immediately spread to the Bidding House.
Instead, the king goes to bed alone, drunk on mead and port. And the court hens have little to share except the same old gossip: he eats roasted pig, finances theatrical productions, and ignores politics while his brother brings him spoils of war.
As we go deeper into the castle, the corridors are much less decorative than the common areas. Bare stone walls with iron sconces barely illuminate the way, guiding us to a lesser-used wing. I look down at my hands. My skin’s glow wavers, almost extinguished.
We climb up a spiral staircase with uneven steps until my side aches. I stop to peer out the turret’s minuscule window. Fireworks erupt over the land, marking the night’s celebrations.
Wellcrest’s hot breath grazes the back of my neck. “Just a little farther to the top, if you please.”
After reaching a wide stone landing, the captain raps his knuckles against the wooden threshold. The arched door creaks open, and we enter, passing silent sentries and healers who eye us curiously.
It’s a circular chamber, comfortable with shaggy rugs, sofas, chairs, and overflowing bookshelves. The fireplace burns wood fiercely while a telescope points at the constellations through a crumbling hole in the turret wall.
King Xander hunches over and coughs violently beside the fire while two attendants hold him up to prevent his collapse. Even though I’ve just seen him at the Bidding Ceremony, I hardly recognize him in his dressing robes as we give our bows and curtsies. He looks so small, so ordinary, so sick.
King Xander’s eyes rise and catch sight of Balor’s bending form. “What is he doing here?” the king barks at Wellcrest. “I said to be discreet.”
“Your Grace,” Balor drawls, low and oily. “I am her Keeper. It is my responsibility if she’s offended you in some way.”
“You are the only offense before me.” Once more, the king begins coughing, leaving blood on his white handkerchief.
He motions for the wingback chair, and his attendants bring it to him.
He lowers himself onto its cushion with a deep sigh and rasps, “Let it be known, she has no Keeper and never will again—”
My eyes widen. “What—do you—do you mean?” Embarrassment washes over me as I remember that I’m speaking to the monarch. “Your Grace…” I dip into an extra curtsy, hoping I didn’t cause insult.
He gives me a skeptical look, tinged with a hint of hesitation. “If what Phyrne claims is correct, you are the daughter of Queen Theodora and the rightful heir to the throne.”
My hand flies to cover my mouth, stopping me from saying something I might regret. Because what the king says couldn’t be true—it simply couldn’t be. My sharp pinky nail digs into the skin above my upper lip. Dizziness tilts me while I process what he’s just said.
“That is impossible,” Balor exclaims, his stance wide as he gestures sharply with his hands. “Phyrne has always been conniving, but to bring Tabitha into it is low, even for her.” It’s surprising he would defend me after everything he’s put me through.
“The only reason I have not had you thrown from this tower is that you are the Chancellor, but I caution you: utter another word… and I’ll summon the strength to expel you myself.
I am in no mood for your distractions. Now shut your foolish mouth.
” Balor’s face puckers into sour obedience as he stops talking, eyes narrowing into slits.
“Bring her forward,” the king orders the guards.
“We shall listen yet again.” Under his breath, he adds, “And perhaps this time, she’ll make more sense. ”
We wait in silence while they retrieve Madame Phyrne. My mind tries to sort through everything that’s happened since her collapse, but my thoughts barrel into a wall.
Flipping on his heel, Balor exits the chamber, and I exhale. Whatever is happening is better without his presence.
The king beckons me to his seat as attendants bring more pillows. I kneel by his side. He locks eyes with me, his back rigid, as he seizes my shoulders with an ice-cold grip. “Regardless of what happens tonight, you must assume the heirdom. It’s yours by blood law—”
“But—”
“Refrain from interrupting and listen,” he implores, releasing me. “You must also never surrender to the Witch-King, not until you wipe his lands from the map and claim their resources in retribution for the atrocities they’ve committed against our people and our ancestors.”
I rise as the stomping boots announce the guards’ return with Madame Phyrne. I’ve known her all my life, ever since my earliest memories of training, and yet I’ve never seen this wild, terrified expression on her face.
The king tries to speak, but blood gurgles in his throat, bubbling onto his lips before he wipes it away once more. “Well, what—are you waiting for?” he sputters. “Tell the girl what—what you told me.”
She falls to her knees and clutches the fabric of my ripped ceremony gown. This distraught madame is so unlike the one who drilled etiquette and composure into my lessons. Looking at how frail and meek she’s become makes me sick to my stomach.
“Is it true?” I ask softly, my voice sounding strange.
Every wrinkle converges on her face as her white brows knit together. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Her words ring through my ears with weighted implications. Panic prickles over my body like sharpened needles.
I snatch my gown from her hands and back away before I flee to the opposite side of the king’s chair, my breathing growing rapid.
This must be a fever dream.
Wellcrest stands beside me, barely moving, his expression unreadable. I’m unsure if this is an attempt to be reassuring or if he wants to be close just in case he needs to detain me.
My racing thoughts boil down to one question. “Why?”
Phyrne cries, “They sent a vision.”
The king stops hacking, and his eyes flit back and forth like he’s trying to work something out. “You said nothing of this earlier.”
“Because they compelled me to seek you out and confess. I wasn’t in control of my body, and still, to this very moment, a lingering presence disturbs the very root of my soul, pushing me to tell you everything.
W-what I saw in that place is more than anyone should have to bear.
I’m scared that if I speak of them, they’ll invade my thoughts once more—and I won’t go back to that Otherworld labyrinth. I won’t!”
Those in the room remain silent, listening to her.
“I still don’t understand what the images meant.
They came in flashes of fire. Waves of fire.
Until I was in such pain that I thought I’d never return.
I lost track of all time, but one thing remained the same.
Tabitha kept recurring. Again and again.
Wearing the circlet and covered in blood… and behind her was… was…”
“The witches…” King Xander’s face pales even further, making him resemble a corpse, as he whispers, “They haunt my dreams as well.”
Terror filling my veins, I shakily ask, “Who are the witches?”
But he doesn’t answer. He looks around the circular room at the servants and healers, whose faces are agape.
“Not a word of this leaves this turret. Captain Wellcrest will record every person in attendance and ensure everyone on the list is executed if this information dares to leak. You may leave your names with him. You are dismissed.”
Wellcrest motions for a scroll and quill.
The healers and various servants share furrowed brows and unspoken gazes before they gather their supplies to depart.
“We are running out of time. You’ve been wretched enough in this mess; now tell the girl about her mother,” King Xander snaps, not long after the room empties.
“It’s not my fault!” Phyrne wrings her hands. “Theodora wanted it this way.”
“Let me make myself clear: I care not that you’re my cousin and death beckons me. If you twist this to your benefit, I’ll see to it that you accompany me, hand in hand, into death,” he warns.
“They made sure I died a thousand deaths in the blink of an eye for keeping this secret. You don’t know the punishment I’ve already endured.”
The king bellows, “You’ve endured? You’ve endured! You dare look me in the face and speak those words?”
My lungs constrict and burn. How could Phyrne have lied to me my whole life?
Theodora. The Courtesan Queen.
My mother.
She turns toward me. “Listen, Tabitha. If I could go back, I would.”
“What happened to her?” My throat is too tight. Everything feels unreal, as if I’m watching from the outside.
“You deserve to know the truth, and I’m sorry it’s taken this long to get it.
” Phyrne stares at the licking flames, her hysteria slowing.
“It’s been twenty-eight years… twenty-eight years since Theodora collapsed in front of the Bidding House.
It was nearly midnight, and she was in so much pain, so much agony.
Something was obviously wrong, so I brought her inside.
She was acting differently, straining and bearing down.
That’s when I realized she was in labor.
It was peculiar. Her stomach wasn’t round with the girth of pregnancy, and blood poured from between her thighs.
Before I could call for the midwives, she gave birth standing upright next to the hearth, pulling the tiniest newborn to herself. ”
“And who was the baby?” wheezes the king, his face gray and withered.
“Tabitha Rilea. The woman before you.”